


Moonlight

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Blow Jobs, Chronic Illness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23156275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: It was disconcerting to hear no footsteps around him, no swish of silk or leather groaning. There was no one around. He was alone.
Relationships: Louis XIII de France/Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu
Kudos: 16





	Moonlight

The thing about living with constant pain that body had ever mentioned to Louis, was that you got used to it. It became a part of life, like the sound of chatter at the back of a room. Sometimes barely there and at other times so overwhelming that you could not hear your own thoughts. He’d spoken to plenty of soldiers over the years, battle-hardened and rough as many of them were. And not one of them had talked about this.

After all, such things were not something that the king of France had to hear about. He had enough on his plate to be burdened with such things.

Louis had been very young when he’d realized that he’d have to push through the constant pain in his stomach, no matter if it was so painful that he was worried that he’d faint in front of everyone. And by pushing through, he learned that he could do it.

The fact that it made him very good at lying, both to himself and others was simply an additional benefit or a curse.

Everything was a performance.

The king of France had to be seen, he had to be visible and well dressed and alive. A short temper, fast movements and an instinct to order absolutely everyone around could all be accepted, since he was in fact the ruler of the country. They were not characteristics other people would associate with a person who was deeply desperate to find a chamber pot and some privacy.

Audiences and councils, he could handle. He just had to make sure not to clench his hands so tightly that the nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. And to keep calm as the waves of pain washed over him.

Training sessions with weapons were often so enjoyable that he’d momentarily forget how bad the morning had been. Sometimes they were horrendous, as the cramping made him misstep or lose his concentration.

Horseback riding was both the joy of his life and his personal hell on Earth. He loved the hunt more than he loved life itself, but the jostling in the saddle was often so painful that tears leaked down his cheeks as he rode. But on other days, when the pain was mild, there was nothing closer to the divine but the sunshine through the leaves and the sounds of the hooves and hounds as they chased their prey.

Louis was stalking through the hallways with Richelieu at his heels, exhaustion wrapping around him like a cloak. Not the sort that you could brush away, but the sort that poisoned your bloodstream and valiantly tried to drag you down. He had to force his hands not to form fists, aware of the fact that Richelieu was watching him very closely indeed.

Richelieu had stopped talking some time ago, no longer cramming as much information into his elegant sentences as humanly possible. That should have been warning sign that the Cardinal had noticed that something was very wrong indeed, but Louis had just brushed the idea away.

Louis knew that he’d been inpatient and short with Richelieu all evening, but instead of Richelieu trying to soothe his ruffled feathers, he’d grown silent and observant instead. A dangerous combination.

The hallway was empty of Musketeers, of servants.

But no matter.

The building had enough Musketeers and Red Guards and others whose job it was to protect his life. There was no point in spending too much time worrying about being killed. And if anyone would try anything, he knew how to fight.

Not that he always could.

Louis swallowed the bile in his throat, looking around. Sweat dripped down his back and he ran a hand through his hair.

Richelieu had stopped following him, perhaps he’d said his goodbyes and left. Louis had barely been paying attention, focused on getting to bed as soon as possible.

It was disconcerting to hear no footsteps around him, no swish of silk or leather groaning. There was no one around. He was alone.

The king was never supposed to be alone. Not if you wanted him to be safe, instead of dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

That was the function of castles, of forts, of the Louvre. Build it strong and to last, fill it with Musketeers and people who kept an eye on him at all times. Every hour, even during the night.

But now he was alone, with the moonlight streaming through the window. Was this how ordinary people lived?

With more than a few seconds of privacy at a time?

Louis enjoyed the moment, breathing out. Surely in a few seconds, someone would come along and promptly begin panicking about him being left to fend for himself.

Then he started walking again, humming a favorite tune underneath his breath. He’d go to bed, wrapping himself in his own covers and sleep for as long as he liked. A solid plan.

He didn’t see the assassin because he could not hear him, too preoccupied with getting to bed. At first, he’d been too shocked to move, even to scream. But the weapons training that had been drilled into him for years on end kicked in, making sure that he could back away without having to think about it. His legs did the work for him as he screamed for help, hands already searching for something, anything, that could be a weapon.

They found nothing.

The assassin lunged at him with the knife and Louis managed to punch him in the face as hard as he could, but that was far from enough to win the fight.

Louis could feel his legs screaming at him from a day of pushing himself, rage and fear coursing through his veins as he dodged the assassin’s knife. His mind was a mess of noise, sluggish with exhaustion, even now.

His back met the wall and the assassin smiled, knife in hand.

Louis stepped forwards, determined not to die cowering by the wall. If he was going to die, he was going to go down fighting.

But before he could do as much as raise his hand, there was the familiar sound of silk on stone. And then Richelieu was there, striding toward the assassin with a pale face and terrifying eyes, looking as if he’d stepped out of hell itself.

“Your majesty,” Richelieu greeted Louis, still walking. A stiletto had appeared in his hand, gleaming silver in the moonlight. His tone was casual, as if he’d just decided to drop by to mention a few matters of state before leaving, a last-minute visit.

“Cardinal,” Louis managed, watching with no small amount of delight as the assassin’s expression changed from confusion to outright terror as soon as he realized that Richelieu was not going to stop walking towards him.

And then Richelieu, a man that was surrounded by doctors on a daily basis, who often got so ill that he had to be confined to a bed for weeks on end, started fighting. There was no proper rhythm to it, even if Louis could see traces of training in the footwork, as Richelieu stabbed the man in the stomach with a movement that was far too deliberate for a man of the cloth. Richelieu took a delicate step back when the assassin tried to lunge for him with the knife, only slicing through red silk.

And perhaps that was what terrified the assassin the most. Fighting someone who fought fair, or even just obeyed the rules was something entirely different than fighting someone who had thrown the rules out the window and was simply here to slaughter you.

Louis could see the panic settling in the assassin’s eyes.

For a few seconds, the fight looked more like a brutal dance, if such things included knives and punches.

Richelieu’s knife clattered on the floor, only for him to reach into his robes for what appeared to be a fork. Which he then used to stab the man in the stomach again. Then Richelieu elbowed the man in the chest so hard that the assassin dropped his knife, then stepped on his hand when he tried to retrieve it.

Louis heard the bones break, then the ribs crack as Richelieu kicked him as soon as the assassin tried to sit up. Richelieu slit the man’s throat with the assassin’s own knife, no hesitation in his movements.

It was only then that Louis could breathe, hearing nothing but Richelieu’s rapid breathing and feeling nothing but Richelieu’s hands on his shoulders, seeing nothing but Richelieu looking him over for wounds, for blood.

Four Musketeers came running, stopping in their tracks as soon as they saw the corpse on the floor.

“Get rid of this for me,” Louis said, motioning to the corpse on the floor. “And have someone clean up the blood.”

“I’ll stay with his majesty,” Richelieu said, delicately wiping his bloody hands with a handkerchief. Then he opened the door to Louis’s bedroom, lavish as it was. “Guard the door.”

Two of the Musketeers picked up the body and carried it away with the ease of a maid with her basket of laundry. Blood dripped on the floor, leaving it a mess.

“Search everywhere, in case he had a friend with a similar goal in mind,” Louis said, glad to hear that his voice was level and authorities. “Now!”

“Yes, Sire!” the rest of the Musketeers said, jumping to it.

Richelieu nodded, standing tall and proud. There was no trace of illness on his face, no hint of exhaustion in his eyes. Instead they were bright and clear, a flush on his pale neck.

Louis went inside the bedroom, not even looking to see if Richelieu was following him. Of course, he was.

“Well done,” Louis said, resisting the urge to collapse into a chair. “I didn’t know you could fight like that.”

“Hm,” Richelieu said, already preening. “He didn’t injure you, did he?”

“No,” Louis said. “He didn’t even manage to come that close before you came along.”

“Good,” Richelieu said, satisfied. He paced the room, getting rid of some of that excess energy. “At least we don’t have to worry about him being a problem any longer.”

“Seeing that he’s a corpse now,” Louis said, finally sitting down in the chair. He spread his thighs and leaned back, not worried about looking decent. “Thank you for saving my life tonight.”

Richelieu smiled at him, all teeth.

Blood had soaked into his robes, blending in with the red silk.

“As always, I am at your service, your Majesty,” Richelieu said smoothly, bowing for good measure.

“Are you?” Louis asked, seeing how Richelieu’s eyes lingered on him. “At my service?”

“Yes,” Richelieu said, watching as Louis spread his thighs wider. His eyes had grown wild, hungry. “I am.”

“Show me, then,” Louis said, motioning to the floor.

Richelieu went to his knees, silk pooling on the ground. It was a smooth motion, because here was a man that knew exactly what he was doing.

Louis threw his doublet away with force, unlacing his trousers and lifting his hips to get them down to his knees. Just earlier that week he’d pulled Richelieu into a forgotten hallway, crushing his mouth with his and demanded that Richelieu would shove his hand down his trousers.

Richelieu had done so, doing delicious things with his hand as he pressed Louis against the wall. Louis had pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle the sounds he was making as Richelieu smiled against his throat, hand still working.

Now Richelieu’s mouth was on him, hands spreading Louis’s thighs. Louis gripped the armrests, breathing hard as Richelieu made indecent sounds. He knew that if Richelieu would take off all those endless layers of silk, there would be lace undergarments and always a hint of worry that could only be stripped away when the man was absolutely out of it due to pleasure.

But that was for another night.

For now, the robes stayed on, and Richelieu used his mouth for other things than arguing with everyone in sight or being wildly dramatic.

This was not a night for taking things slow, for arguing with the sun about going slower so that they could have just a few more minutes together. Richelieu’s fingers dug into Louis’s thighs, there’d be bruising that he’d never explain to anyone.

Louis just stored away the sounds of Richelieu’s breathing against him after they were done, how he’d stumble away, still in a haze, to get something to clean him up. And how Richelieu adjusted his robes before he left, having made sure that Louis was already in bed and perfectly content.

He lay awake for a while, listening to the thundering speech that Richelieu gave to the guards and how he’d sauntered away afterwards, still gloriously angry.

Tomorrow, Louis would have to deal with a whole heap of problems. But for the blissful hours until dawn, there was nothing to do but sleep.


End file.
